To Freedom, At Midnight
by Carolare Scarletus
Summary: Hermione Granger was a ferocious dove that stole his heart. Now, she was a mindless puppet and as helpless as any of them could be. Romance; Drama; AU- Voldemort wins; War slave.


**House:** Slytherin

 **Category:** Short Story

 **Prompts:** The Yule Ball

 **Characters:** Adrian Pucey, Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Lucius Malfoy, Narcissa Malfoy

 **Word count:** 2,942 (Excluding Author's Note, but including entire Short Story and Title)

 **Beta'd by:** Daronwyk. Again, thank you! You rock!

 **Author's Note:** I'll have you know, I changed my mind at least twenty times. I've never done any sort of competition before and I really wanted my House to be proud of me (as I'm so proud of them!). This was my first choice until the plot bunnies reared their ugly heads and I had the hardest time choosing which prompt to work with. In the end, my original lost.

I barely had enough of time to scrape this together (due to work and State Boards are literally less than two weeks away.) For the life of me, I don't know how I came up with this fic. I just hope y'all enjoy it!

 **FYI-** I may have cursed myself. This was such an interesting take that I feel that I could either tell the tale from the beginning, or continue from this scene. Who knows?

Please review and let me know!

 _As always, enjoy_

-Carolare Scarletus

* * *

 _.~._

 _To Freedom,_

 _At Midnight  
.~._

* * *

The atrium was dressed in a blanket of magnificent snow. Once thought unattainable, the airy substance brushed against the guests' cheeks delightedly as they passed the line of hearths decorated with red and green wreaths and into the welcoming hall. Masked attendees were given the task of greeting the guests as they arrived, ushering them to the various places and acting as their host. Among the guests were captives of the four-year long war. They stood displayed like animals in glass containers, with auctioneers bidding on them like trophies for purchase. As the participants walked, they would gawk and whisper under their breaths while pointing at the exhibits. What was once an annual beneficial dance dedicated to union of Magical alliances across the world, meant to bring people together, was now held in disgrace. This year, they were holding the ball for the downfall of the side of the light. The dark contrast from the usual joyful time was a tangible element in tonight's festivities.

Hermione Granger gazed out into the open preserve of the ballroom, hardly recognizing the prisoners on their once blood stained faces. She stood atop of the staircase, minding the lovely style that she had painstakingly magicked at the last minute. It paired well with the formal Pamella Roland ombre crunched sequined gown and faille skirt. The bodice, although it showed way too much of her sides and breasts, was fitted. The neckline was jeweled with crystals as well as half sleeves that formed nicely to her upper arms. Though too outrageous for her liking, she believed that it was a nice addition to the robes. Besides, she had to play the part. She didn't have the right to indulge, despite it being a more extravagant version of some famous designer's vision. Her escort was busying himself with introducing her to people she hardly recognized. Though, she felt nothing like the sort of woman that he presented to his friends like some sort of delicate war prize. She didn't feel as polished as he said she was; as if born from some sick persuasion, she didn't know _who_ she was.

Adrian Pucey had been the one to win her. During the auction set up some months prior to their victory, he was the Pureblood that rose from the ashes and placed the highest stake on her life. She would have been presented to sex-crazed Death Eaters before meeting her unmighty end by their savior himself. Fortunately for her, that fate had been spared. Since then, she's been under Pucey's care and control. Every night he took his fill of her. Opening new doors to ones that she didn't think could open under his touch. She was a slave with as much free will as a newborn child. She felt oddly out of place. It was as if the strings that were connected to her extremities were rebelling against the natural order that was this confining demand, and every time she bent her arm or extended her leg, the strain on them became noticeable through the thin robe that clung to her overheated body. These crystal lines were the only thing keeping her from falling, and the only thing that was keeping her alive.

She looked out before her, announcing her arrival in a fashion that entirely not her own. Every head seemed to turn when her feet contacted the last step, allowing the powerful magic that coursed through the room to shoot back right at her. She was the sheep outside of the herd. They looked on at her with wide speculation and intrigue. As she walked, her eyes met her date's, the striking young man that had unconvincingly saved her from certain doom. Bonded to him, Hermione walked toward the hunter of the unknown.

He slowly turned his attention to his treasure. His jewel, one would be bold enough to say. She made her way over to him in slow, deliberate steps. The dress he had bought her was that of ice blue. It did wonders to her curvy form, which was accentuated by the tight lace fabric. He simply loved seeing her in it. She walked with purpose and alleviated confidence, something that had been hard to find before their union. Now, she was unstoppable, and that's exactly how he liked her. Even with the strings, she knew that the rage fanning within her was something he admired as well dreaded.

Hermione spotted him a mile away and remained unresponsive. Once she made her way over to him, she planted a firm and customary kiss on his lips. His hands drew up to cup her cheeks and she deepened the exchange, only pulling away when she needed air. She was starved for him as he was starved for her.

This was a game of love and hate, and she was beating him with even more strength and vigor than he could have possibly imagined.

With crystals as magnificent as the ones that bonded her to him, she felt even more powerful than she has in months.

"You look pleased." she breathed.

"Why wouldn't I be?" he growled, moving his hand so it rested on her hip. For some strange reason, he could feel the wrong eyes on her and he instantly regretted talking her into wearing the dress. "You are my fiancé, so why wouldn't I be pleased to see you?"

"She is a jewel, Pucey," one of his mates assured him with a grand smile when he finally acknowledged their presence. They were not admiring her dress, which was magnificent on its own.

He was looking at the crystal lines that ran from every vantage point on her body, the major arteries of her support vanishing in midair.

"How much did it cost to put those strings in?"

"An arm and a leg," he said, laughing at his own joke before the rest of his group caught on. The once believed God of their time had turned into somewhat of a prudent playboy. Spending money every which way like it was nothing and indulging in more than one witch every night was some of the indecencies that Hermione had chalked up. Her frazzled mind whirled hauntingly for a moment. When a hand slipped from her lower back to caress her hip, she turned her attention to her date with a smile. It was not of her own accord, but the strings' doing.

"What is it?" he asked, then. "Her fourth pair?"

"I believe it is," Adrian looked at her with an odd expression before turning the conversation more to his liking. He spoke of sports, racing specifically.

She felt like a prisoner in her own body. The room was crowded and the only sound that she could make was that belonging to the damnable strings attached to her body. If she were to scream, no one would hear. No one would even turn to see if it was their imagination that set off the alarming sound. What noise she could produce came from her mind, and what a haunting sound, indeed.

Adrian looked at her. It bothered her greatly that he would bring up something as miniscule as the cost of her bindings. Evidently, he wanted to ignite a long-extinguished fire; the fool was only playing with the wrong companion. The game was set to end soon.

"Are you feeling alright, darling?"

Hermione nodded, "Yes, quite."

Adrian knew when she was lying, but didn't try to engage her in any other way except to ask if she would like to dance. She readily agreed. It was something that she did find quite entertaining, even if the movements weren't her own. Bidding his group farewell, he escorted her to the middle of the grand room, placed a hand on her hip, and immediately dived into the choice dance that was being humored.

"I won't have you embarrassing me like that again, Hermione," Pucey said in low, threatening voice. "I paid good money to have those blasted strings installed and I won't have my fiancé defying yet another set. People have been whispering that I am incapable of controlling you."

"Perhaps, I don't want to be controlled?" this little slip of her tongue caused a sharp pain to form where they were joined. When she looked up, she saw just how serious that he was. "You can't keep me this up. They'll break. They always do."

"I don't think so," he gazed directly into her eyes as he said it. "Even if it takes ten more pairs to finally put you in your place, I don't care. You'll remember who saved you. It could be a lot worse for you, Granger." He had the nerve to smile at her before tilting her head up so their lips were just a whisper away. "The things I do for you."

She should have felt revolted the second his lips touched hers. These strings were eating away as her emotions. Her movements would soon not be hers and before she knew it even her emotions would be entirely subjected to their scrutiny. It was obvious to her that he paid a handsome amount for this set and unlike the others, this one will be difficult to break in.

Some rebellious rage still lingered inside her, if demonstrated in the nick that she gave him by accident was any indication.

Adrian brushed a finger across his lip, eyeing the blood before lifting his gaze towards her. There was a deathly glow about his eyes that made Hermione shiver. However, it wasn't directed at her. Before he could stop her, Hermione whipped her head around, gasped at the sight of him as he made his way from the top of the staircase and down to the ballroom.

Draco Malfoy was splendid as he was forbidden. In a world where Voldemort ruled and the Death Eaters had their pick of Muggles and Muggleborns alike, he was one face that she was almost livid to see in a world so picturesque in black and white. That little sprinkle of color was the only thing that kept her going. She could just hear the strain on her strings give way whilst she considered the man that fought tirelessly and for so long.

It was true that Draco had lost all the favor he had during the war. Switching over to the light during his fifth year, he caused quite a stir in the dynamics of the community. Having been forced to irradiate any feelings towards the Pureblood monarch, she found some peace in his presence this evening. He had given up everything to fight on the side that should have won. The side that should be having this ball in the honor of those who had lost their lives and the victory of defeating evil. The blonde aristocrat prowled the floor like a lion seeking out its mate.

"I was beginning to wonder when the bastard would make his appearance," he murmured in her ear. "Pay attention, dear. He is the slum of the pole. Voldemort himself wouldn't dare make acquaintance with him after everything he's done." His hand made its way possessively up and over her waist. "He's the man that could have won you if he had been liberated enough to do so. Shall we make his acquaintance first?"

"Do you think bidding on Muggles and auctioning them off like cattle is some sort of game to you?" Silence met her question. "That this is the sort of life that-"

"Choose those next words carefully," he whispered in her ear," or I swear, Hermione, you'll regret ever crossing me."

She caught his eye defiantly and for a moment her magic flared against her bindings, sending to cascade back right down to her body three-fold.

"What part of this victory upsets you so?" he asked. "You have everything you could ever want and you still want more. Is it the bindings, the clothes, or jewels? Whatever it is, Hermione, I'll get it for you. Just let me have your heart."

"Don't you dare think for once that these bindings will hold me for long." Hermione's voice was low to the point that anyone near them wouldn't dare eavesdrop on their private conversation. "I may be your prisoner, but I will never give you what no one has." she said, thankful that he didn't detect the sneering implement residing in her words. Just as she uttered those words, a hand came around her and a voice sounded behind their clothed little world. The gentleman that so graciously made their acquaintance and vowed to make her fiancé's life a living hell. Partners were swapped suddenly in tradition to the uplifting beat and soon she found herself in the arms of several men before ever had the chance to know who had the audacity, much less the talent, to sweep her off her feet and push her to the most secluded region of the ball.

She found a seat in a luxurious longue chair.

There, she sat down.

Arm draped over the cushions, a single leg propped up in the most provocative pose; yes, her fiancé controlled even these basic movements from halfway across the room. As she rested, she could feel that the magic used on the bindings was no ordinary magic. Ever since their first night, he's been collecting their fluids and using them in some sort of twist bit of dark magic. She had yet to figure out which spell he casted, but one thing was clear- whatever it was, everyone had gotten their hands on it.

Pureblood woman bonded to Muggle men. High-statured men connected to helpless girls. She knew several Muggleborns with the same fate as her.

A sick, deserting feeling washed over her. The room fell into a dizzy whirlwind of colors and faces. Before she could stop herself, her head whipped back and thumped against the back of the sofa she rested upon. When she opened her eyes, Hermione lifted her head up and was met with piercing grey eyes.

Draco never looked so breathtaking until that moment. He lifted his hand, his eyes casted to the strings as his magic came to envelope them. This allowed them both the freedom that they wanted and desperately needed.

War had an interesting effect on him. He looked more like a wild, uninhibited version of a masquerader than a deserter. He didn't fit within the fine china that was the partiers.

Her hand had a mind of its own. Raising before she could think about her actions, she carded her fingers through his fine hair, shivering slightly at the simply touch.

"You're real," she croaked, her eyes glistening.

"I see you're faring well," he told her softly. He took one look at the strings and his expression changed to that of disgust. "You've taken his strings."

"It's not what you think." Hermione said then, trying to win a case against his obvious anger. "He would have killed me."

Draco looked at her, puzzled. He was giving her a look she didn't recognize. One of pure disbelief, one of astonishment. It was as if he didn't believe what she was telling her.

"Perhaps, you should have let him."

"Y…you can't be serious, surely." She tried to rid herself of the betraying nature of his stare, but couldn't.

"I don't think you remember the sacrifices I had to make," he told her in a disapproving tone. "If I recall… you were the one to tell me that I was living a lie. That I had to set myself free before they got a hold of me."

During their brief interludes in the night during their fifth year, she would bring him up to the astronomy tower and remind him exactly what he was fighting for. His mother, bless her heart. She had died soon after their sixth and she knew that he hadn't forgiven himself for the pain that ensued from the only person who ever loved him, besides herself. At the tender age of nineteen, soon to be twenty, she found that she has spent most of the blasted war playing the victim. It left a sick feeling to rise inside of her chest.

"You're a bird stuck in a cage, Granger." he told her. "This was the last place I wanted to see you- caged up like some circus animal, completely at the mercy to do their bidding. Didn't I warn you that this would happen? Voldemort won. If you had listened to me, you would have least been given strings with a significant more freedom than this prick is giving you. He's draining you. And, you're letting him."

"Shows you how much you know," she bit out angrily. The strings forbid her to speak to her fiancé in such a way, but it didn't really specify if her anger could be directed to someone else. It seems that she's found some sort of loophole in the magic after all. "You would have done the same thing he's doing!"

"No," he said quietly, reaching out to caress one of the strings that poked from the juncture of her elbow," I would have given you freedom."

When she blinked, she found that she was alone.

She hadn't been placed on that sofa to enjoy a moment of solitude.

To her right was her fiancé, as foreboding as ever, looking at her as if she had lost all sense before taking another sip of his Firewhiskey to calm his nerves.

And, in her hand was a note that read:

 _Soar, my beautiful dove_

 _To Freedom at Midnight_

 _-D.M._


End file.
